Archive for July, 2008

Published by PaintingChef on 31 Jul 2008

And good morning to you too. Asshole.

This morning I was snuggled in a cocoon under the comforter enjoying those last 20 minutes of near-sleep. You know the ones… just as you’re waking up you roll over and find that perfectly comfortable spot in the bed, the spot that eludes you all night and you get perfectly good sleep but f you could have just found THIS spot… you could have had the kind of sleep that lets you wake up fully refreshed with sparkling non-puffy eyes and adorable bed-head (as opposed to crazy Unabomber bed-head, three-week bender eyeballs and sleep wrinkles).

So as I’m snuggled into the SPOT listening to that adorably bad kitten pounce around on the silk duvet (WORST. IDEA. EVER. btw…) and play with the air, I suddenly feel a strange warming sensation on my hip. And apparently my near-sleep was a little closer to actual sleep than awake because it must have taken me a full 45 seconds to realize that the ADORABLY bad and PERFECTLY LITTER BOX TRAINED asshole cat had just PISSED ON MY BED. On the aforementioned and ill-advised silk duvet. ON MY HIP.

My cat. She peed on me. More pee than I can produce after drinking six Captain Morgan and ginger ales while floating in a pool in Mexico. (Yes… still to come. But I have PICTURES too and I have not yet put Photoshop on this computer because it is living in a bowl in the middle of my dining room table along with three empty key chains, two cat toys and a partridge in a pear tree and so all I have are gargantuan 3 meg pictures (on the memory card that has been riding around in my billfold since we got back) that must first be shrunken down and perhaps adjusted for poorly lit conditions caused by alcohol consumption.)

I’m not really certain what noise I made when the whole situation clicked together but it brought Patrick a-runnin’. Riddle me this… Have you ever tried to remove a comforter from inside a duvet while a) not fully awake b)dancing around because you are squicked out at being covered in CAT URINE c)being helped by someone who isn’t schooled in the architecture involved in the duvet cover and d)DID I MENTION THE CAT PEE?

e) all of the above.

Obviously this meant I was going to the cleaners this morning. But if this will give you some indication of my priorities (and the washability of my summer dresses), I have a dermatologist, someone to do my nails, a vet (who will also be getting a call from me this morning because google seems to think Lilly may be trying to tell me she doesn’t feel good and not that she’s just an asshole) an aesthetician and a hair stylist. What I do NOT have are a doctor, a gynecologist, a dentist and a dry cleaner.

One of those things has now been remedied.

And the super friendly barista at Starbucks is now cursing the day he ever asked me how my morning was while he fixed me that triple shot…

That I TOTALLY earned.

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Jul 2008

One of the most perfect things I’ve ever read.

“The Good Nights”
by Joseph Mills

On the good nights
When the bottle’s empty
we always want
just a little more,
half a glass,
a few sips,
a taste.
We know
this desire
can be dangerous
to pursue,
that it can make
mornings difficult,
so usually we
brush our teeth,
let the dog in,
lock the doors,
but sometimes,
even as we say
We really should
get ready for bed,
instead of loading
the dishwasher
we will search
for the corkscrew,
all the while
shaking our heads
in wonder
at this willingness
to ignore the clocks
and the fact that we have
to work tomorrow,
this irresponsibility,
this evidence
even after all these years
of the unquenchable desire
for each other’s company.

“The Good Nights” by Joseph Mills from Angels, Thieves and Winemakers: Wine Poems. © Press 53, 2008

Published by PaintingChef on 21 Jul 2008

Home.

We are home. We are exhausted, almost-but-not-quite sunburned and managed to narrowly escape a tropical storm named Dolly. My luggage was lost, of course, and I was reunited with it late this morning complete with a bottle of tequila with a marginally effective (yet adorable) wooden cap. Call me psychic but I sense a large dry-cleaning bill in my future.

However… I won’t complain as the customs officers in Atlanta STOLE MY SISTER’S TEQUILA.

Also? Even though I totally told him it wouldn’t count because we were in another country when it happened. My husband is finally 30. Like me. But with more gray hair.

More later. After I emerge from the coma I plan to enter roughly one hour after I get home from work. I deduce that is how long it will take me to wash two loads of clothes and throw them all into the dryer at once, make Patrick a hot dog and some macaroni and cheese (who am I kidding… its a PB&J night. or maybe pizza) and nuzzle my puppy. I am nothing if not efficient.

For the record? Lilly did NOT disappoint me.

I will also tell you how Patrick was detained by the police outside the airport on suspicion of a domestic disturbance. In front of my parents.

Published by PaintingChef on 15 Jul 2008

Like a furry little reminder of their favorite daughter-in-law.

Dear Lilly…

As you’ve heard countless times, you are an awesomely bad cat. You take misbehaving to an all new level and even though sometimes I want to punt you across the living room, deep down I swell with pride because you? Are totally unique.

You may not realize this but you are going to spend a few days with mommy’s in-laws. And I’d just like to make a few suggestions…

Last night? When you drug the bag of spinach across the kitchen floor and then proceeded to crawl inside and eat half of it? That was hysterical. Make sure you do some of that. And once when I was eating a turkey sandwich and you pulled it clean out of my hand by the tomato? Resurrect that trick too.

lilly-yum.jpg

You know how at night you jump up on top of the entertainment center, take a flying leap onto the bed and then wrap your wee little body around my head and purr with all your might with your cold little nose in my ear? More of that too. Aim for the bald guy while you are visiting the in-laws… he’ll LOVE that shit.

Whenever anyone is working on anything that involves pieces and parts, even if they are bigger than your whole body, you steal shit. Go into full-on klepto mode. Bonus points if you steal a utensil off the table. Double bonus points if it is in their hand when you do it.

You calling card seems to be the toilet paper mountain of doom. This usually makes me yell your name surrounded on either side with plenty of dirty nasty words that I learned from the internet. Ignore me for a minute and roll their whole damn house.

Oh so very guilty

Generally when you tear through the living room with your tail all puffed out and bank it off the television in your rush to tackle Luna you don’t cause too much damage. And that’s cool… But if you could practice really hard and figure out how to place your feet just so and change their channel from “All Fox News And Other Republican Shit All The Time” to a little Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert as you fly through like a crack whore, I will promise you extra treats when I get home.

I’m sure this is all a little confusing to you as normally these are the things that make me go a little stabby in the head. But it’s like I’m there… inside your body… making their lives hell without them even realizing it’s me. So bring on the bad at record levels. Mommy is counting on you.

lilly-2.jpg

Much Love…
Mommy.

Published by PaintingChef on 07 Jul 2008

In which I promise you many stories but then fail to deliver due to distraction.

Oh look. Its my old friend writer’s block. You know the one… he’s taken up permanent residence in my skull and didn’t even have the decency to bring wine. Not a party favor in sight. He’s just up there (and I am firmly convinced writer’s block is a he despite my repeated cries of YOU BITCH in a desperate attempt to send him packing) hanging out and swatting away every single blog-related thought that pops into my pretty little head.

There are so many lovely things I’ve wanted to talk to you about yet none of them find themselves entertaining enough to cover more than a sentence or two. Let’s run through the list, shall we?

I have mentioned the trip to Mexico, no? I cannot wait. We will fly out on Wednesday morning and by 2:00 I will be sunning myself at this oh so happy place. Rest assured that by 3:00 I shall be heavily intoxicated. This is my solemn vow to you. I feel it is important to set goals for yourself, don’t you agree? It will be my first stamp in my new and improved passport and I fully intend to have many, many more. Do you live in a foreign country? Can I crash on your couch if I bring wine and cake?

Speaking of Mexico, I must tell you a story about my toenail.

I’m sure I’ve not mentioned this before because it is embarrassing, even for me, but in order for you to think I’m completely off the rails… I’ll have to fess up. I have… bad toenails. They don’t grow pretty and my two big toes are particularly heinous. I have had ingrown nails removed from both of them after years of self-surgery and how they grow… wonky. There is no other word.

One afternoon a few weeks ago, the boat ate my big toenail. Swallowed it whole. And I freaked out because who, tell me WHO wants to go on a sandals wearing, salt-water swimming, adorable sundress sporting Mexican vacation WITHOUT A TOENAIL?

So. Um. I had a fake one put on.

And it was beautiful and lovely and fabulous. For about 10 days. And then this past weekend I felt it necessary to stub it four times in a row in a stunning display of grace and coordination. I stubbed it on the bed. And then on a jar of peanut butter. (yes. You read that correctly). I stubbed it on the couch and then finally snagged it on my couch blanket. At which point it just kind of… detached. I, naturally, fixed this with copious applications of super glue because I. AM. AWESOME.

(Are you groaning and writhing in agony yet? Wait! Because it gets better!)

In a grand finale of stupidity I finally raked the whole damn thing in the wrong direction across a leather chair last night at my parents’ house. And proceeded to scream such bloody murder my father was looking for a severed toe when he would have much rather been watching the Red Sox.

So now, despite all my excitement over having a pretty and perfect toenail to go with all my adorable sundresses and sandals I will most likely, once again, have a disgusting fleshy protrusion where my toenail once was. Because I’m a little scared of Ling and her pedicure instruments of death.

I am thinking Lee Press On toenails? Any suggestions? And also… how many margaritas do you think I can consume in a 24 hour period? And is anyone else slightly averse to the concept of a swim-up bar because of the bladder-factor? No? Just me?

Fine.

Next »